Each Thorns
by lye tea
Summary: Brutus disapproves of his mother's relationship with Octavia. /Brutus x Octavia/ /Servilia x Octavia/ /slight Brutus x Servilia/


**Each Thorns**

He loved his mother. Truly, he did. He honored and revered and _fucking respected_ her like she was some high and celestial priestess of Juno. Whatever mother said, he tried to accomplish. Whatever frivolous whim, megrim of vengeance of absolute revulsion (damn the Julii) he did without questions. At least, he calmed her down and spoke to her in hushed, lulling tones.

The walls have ears.

— _and what did she do?—_

Limp and disheveled, she linked herself with some skinny, owlish girl. Brutus saw them laughing together, hands entwined, mouths only inches away, always laughing and happy and deplorably noble. Heads together (secret plans he wasn't "privy to") and bare arms exposed like scoundrels, with tattoos of reincarnated sins inked along de-clotted arteries.

His mother was becoming a nasty, vile thorn in his side. And Octavia of the Julii (always with the damned Julii) was another one too. Poking and searing and penetrating the skin. Relentless. Brutus liked the idea of settling this after all.

"Out late again, mother?"

Servilia gave her son a scathing look. Years of practice as a demure Roman matriarch honed in the ability well. Even now, all grown up and so _manly_, Brutus still flinched like he was bitten. A snake—

she won't have any of that.

"Yes."

"With Octavia again I presume?"

"You presume too much."

"Just answer the fucking question, mother."

"Yes, _son._ With Octavia if you must know."

"Why? Why do you…_consort_ with her? Day and night, I see her entering and leaving our villa. She's like some bloody pestilence that can't be cured. And you, darling mother, are the one spreading the disease."

"She's a good girl. No harm in making friends with the innocent and the kind."

"Tell me: is she better at licking your cunt than Caesar?"

Servilia slapped him hard, breaking the tender skin on his jaw with her gold insignia ring—the sharp imprint of Junius indented neatly just by the chin. It was already smarting and turning the flesh raw and puckering (puking) pink.

"Goodnight then, mother."

Brutus exited the atrium. Mother dearest and a thorn that desperately needed removal. Tomorrow, he would pay Octavia of the Julii a cordial visit.

. . .

On the third day of each week, Octavia would make the proper and usual excuses to Atia and depart discreetly for Servilia's villa. She donned her sheerest dress but covered it with the thick, linen blue cloak (gift from uncle, sturdy and practical—a soldier's honor). Past the other imposing and grand villas and way down the streets, Octavia savored in the morning air. It was safe. It was actually very clever (so she thought). Almost like running away or, really, just seeking her illicit lover in pseudo-incognito.

She tipped the porters carrying the empty litter and escaped through walls like a ghost. Soft, padded shoes on cobblestones scarcely made any noise. And a look or two backwards, a glance for the passing fury. Octavia was cautious. Octavia figured herself invisible—

"Octavia."

Octavia stopped. "Brutus."

"On your way to my mother's, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Weren't you there yesterday as well?"

"We plan to do some…weaving today."

"Ah yes, weaving. And what was yesterday's 'special activity'?"

"Sewing."

"I heard you were deft with the needle."

"Not as deft as you with the sword."

"Well put. Should I accompany you there then? Young girl like you shouldn't be out so early alone. Not very seemly. Or healthy, if you know what I mean."

"That's all right. I can manage from here."

"Please, I insist. It's my house after all."

A rabbit caught with its leg torn off, Octavia couldn't dare refuse. Brutus smiled pleasantly and guided her along the side-alley streets. A perfect gentleman and family-friend.

. . .

"Where's Octavia?"

"Domina…it seems that she's been held up."

"Well, by whom?"

"Your son."

. . .

He led her into a quaint little wineshop minutes away from his residence. Clean and respectable, the place boasted thickened port (like the blood of your enemies!—they cried too much) and delicate plum wine for the fairer palate. Brutus ordered them drinks.

"Octavia," he began casually, "You are a good friend of my mother, are you not?"

"Yes. We've had this conversation before."

"Have we now? I forget. Must be getting old."

Brutus poured her a cup from the gilt carafe. She kept darting looks away, in anticipation, in momentum, in—well, she was overreacting quite a bit.

"What is it that you want?"

"Just to talk."

"Hurry up then. Your mother is waiting."

"She can wait for a bit longer. I have some questions for you. About your relationship with my mother."

"Yes?"

"I asked her this last night, but she just couldn't answer me sufficiently. Are you better at licking her cunt than Caesar?"

Octavia downed the drink and slapped him hard. Conversation ended.

. . .

There was something about Octavia he feverishly hated. Something about the way her enlarged doe eyes narrowed when he entered the room. He could nearly hear the hisses she left in wake as she left a room. The slithering of her robes, skinny body, bony posture. Just like a snake. But then she would speak and everything came out sweet and marvelous just like nectar. She could enchant the slaves with her gentility and gentleness, and even silence his mother in one of her ridiculous rampages, miraculous.

Brutus wanted her gone. Evaporated or sunk ten feet below in a river somewhere. He wanted her extricated from their lives immediately.

At night he could hear paused murmurs and the high, whinny gasps of women—air snatched tight in their throats—from his mother's chambers. And in the morning, before the sun even rose, he saw Octavia leave with her dress hanging off sculpture-shoulders and sandals dangling precariously from her fingers.

She glared daggers, and he merely smiled.

He would wait.

. . .

July turned to hot and stank of rancid rot that couldn't be abated. The palm fans blew incessantly at night. Drapes tied determinedly back against pillars to let the occasional northern breeze slip through swiftly. There was no comfort anywhere in the villa, no cool spot in any crevice. And so, Brutus acquired the habit of pacing in the courtyard every night. Straight across from Servilia's room, deaf to her moans and the rising, vaporous waves of sweat mixed with young girl-sex.

The lady appeared, punctual, timed to the second. Octavia was never late. Tonight, Brutus decided he was tired of playing games and pretending ignorance.

"Either my mother is Venus incarnate or you're delusional."

"Oh shut up. I don't want to hear it again."

"Have I said something wrong?"

"Why do you haunt me so?"

"Me? I live here. _You_ are the intruder."

"No. I am a _guest_ and thus, should be treated with dignity."

"What kind of a guest skulks in the night, emerging from the matron's room wearing nothing but a sleeping shift?"

"The one that doesn't concern you."

Brutus stepped closer, running a finger down her forearm. He inhaled sharply his mother's fragrance (tasted cayenne and rose laced with sea salt) and noticed the distinctly foreign scent of Octavia.

"What if I were to tell your mother? Would Atia want to know what her daughter does in the dead of night?"

"She wouldn't believe you."

"Do you want to make that a bet?"

Scared, Octavia backed up against a pillar, hands shaking, neck pulsing. Stuck in a rut and piled head-high in drunken rigor (Servilia liked strong liquor past midnight). She shook her head, wildly thrashing as Brutus zeroed in.

Rough hands and the slight tearing of silk. He pushed her up against the stone, her back arching, and parted the drapery, wispy fabrics are such an inconvenience. Violently Brutus thrust into her, felt her inner muscles fiercely rejecting his entrance. Octavia stifled a cry, bit down her hand, and looked hastily away. Spontaneity and crazy—

He fucked her until delirious from rage. Her thin bones cracking as she slid against the cold marble. This was reprisal. This was the natural closure of picking off a thorn, of enemies decapitated and pieces asunder, of—

Octavia looked so pitiable up against him, crumbling and deteriorating when winds blew over summer.

He kissed her brutally.

. . .

By midday, Servilia had grown worried, but word soon arrived from the Julii house. Octavia had taken ill and would not be able to visit for at least a week.

"How unfortunate that you'll be gone by then. I so wanted the three of us to spend some time together."

Brutus shrugged and gave his mother a light kiss. Such a shame honestly.


End file.
